


What a life, what a life, you and I

by heartequals (savvygambols)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Pining, Snowstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 23:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savvygambols/pseuds/heartequals
Summary: “We’re domestic partners now, that’s basically it,” says Connor.“Whoa,” says Dylan. “I got married and I wasn’t even paying attention.”Dylan is assigned a final project with Connor and he catches feelings very quickly about it.





	What a life, what a life, you and I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somehowunbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/gifts).



> Enjoy, somehowunbroken! I was very much inspired by your freeform prompt of “I’ve never talked to you before but the teacher just used us as an example for a scenario where we are married” but I took it in a little bit of a different direction. I hope you like it!
> 
> Thank you to the mods for organizing this exchange! It’s been fun.
> 
> Thank you to my hockey babes for cheering me on! Thank you to Chelle for hand-holding, the ideation, betaing, hyping me up, asking me why people would shower when the power is out, and being there every step of the way. I could not have done it without you!!
> 
> Title sort of from “What A Time” by Julia Michaels because I misheard the chorus and really liked the lyrics I heard wrong as a title. I listened to [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UZoR-a0e5gU) a lot while writing this fic.
> 
> If there are three things in the world that I don’t know anything about, they are: sociology, math, Canada. Sorry?

The beginning of the best months of Dylan’s life start because Alex Debrincat chooses his girlfriend over Dylan. But Clayton Keller can also claim some of the blame because if Clayton hadn’t texted him a gif of Elsa from Frozen to explain how he felt about the weather and Dylan hadn’t had to tear him a new one about using Frozen gifs because Frozen came out a million years ago, grow up Clayton, then Dylan would have been paying better attention to Professor Saad’s explanation of their final project. He tunes in at about the time Professor Saad says, “Connor needs a partner. Dylan, do you have a partner?”

Dylan looks up from his phone and looks around but Alex is already with his girlfriend, their heads bent close together as they examine the rubric Professor Saad gave out for their final project. The betrayal runs deep. Dylan really likes Alex’s girlfriend but this just isn’t bros.

“Uh, no,” says Dylan. It looks like everyone else in class has a partner except him and Connor.

“Perfect,” says Professor Saad. “Connor, go sit with Dylan.”

Dylan doesn’t know Connor McDavid that well. Like, he knows of Connor, because it’s a small campus, they’re both seniors, and everyone kinda knows everyone, but he doesn’t think he’s ever had a real conversation with him. No time like the present, he guesses, when Connor sits down next to him looking uncomfortable with his messenger bag in his lap.

“Hi,” says Dylan. “What are we doing?”

“Final project?” says Connor, looking confused. “Uh, were you not listening?”

“Kind of?” Dylan tries to give him a winning smile but he knows he sucks at looking like anything but exhausted, especially right after midterms.

“Oh,” says Connor. He scrunches his nose up, like he’s trying to decide how he feels about their partnership or maybe just Dylan. Oh, fuck; he’s really cute.

“Sorry,” says Dylan.

“It’s okay, I guess,” says Connor. “We’re domestic partners now, that’s basically it.”

“Whoa,” says Dylan. “I got married and I wasn’t even paying attention.” He smiles at Connor trying to inspire confidence, like, I’m gonna be the best domestic partner you’ve ever had. He still doesn’t really know what’s going on though.

“Okay,” says Connor. He nods, seemingly to himself, like he’s come to a conclusion about something. Dylan hopes it’s a good conclusion. “Do you want to look at the rubric? Since you weren’t paying attention.”

He passes Dylan the rubric. Dylan scans it. 200 points for a final project on what Professor Saad has creatively titled _Create A Life Together_ , due at the end of the semester, about two months from now. Two-person group work -- gross, thinks Dylan, because he’s never met a group project that hasn’t crashed and burned -- about making a life between two people. Careers, finances, kids, future planning….and, oh Jesus, emotional health. Professor Saad wants them to talk about their feelings. For a grade.

Dylan figures this all makes sense because it’s a sociology class literally called “#Blessed 101: Marriage in the 21st Century” but he still thinks it all kinda sucks. He doesn’t want to tell Professor Saad or Connor his feelings about marriage. He knows how he feels about marriage and it’s too embarrassing to talk about with anyone except maybe his brother. He’s only in this class to fulfill the social sciences requirement so he can graduate next semester. He doesn’t want to explain that his errant romantic streak concludes when death do him and his future husband part.

He looks over at Connor. Connor is staring at him, looking like he wants to be literally anywhere else.

“You okay?” Dylan asks.

“You just look like you don’t want to do this with me,” says Connor.

“Of course I do,” says Dylan. He knows he wears his emotions all over his face, but Connor’s gotta have a little faith in him. “I was just thinking about how I’m going to romance the hell out of you.”

“Romance--what? You mean we’re going to do well, right?” Connor still looks worried. Dylan is convinced Connor is getting cuter with every passing facial expression.

“That too,” says Dylan. He must look smug enough to be on just the wrong side of stupid because Connor smiles for the first time. It’s half-shy, half-mocking. It’s weird. Dylan loves it.

“Wow,” says Connor. “I didn’t think you did romance.”

That would hurt, a little, if Dylan hadn’t come to terms with the fact that he is Doing The Absolute Most and everyone knows it. His reputation precedes him and that’s fine. It’s senior year and he’s probably never going to see most of his classmates again. He might as well have fun. Hashtag yolo; he’s gonna live a little while he still can. He grins at Connor. 

Dylan is a lot of things but he’s not smooth so the simple act of him grinning his stupid crooked smile that Alex always makes fun of doesn’t explain why Connor flushes bright pink and looks away.

“Dylan, Connor,” says Professor Saad. “Pick the life you’re going to live for the next month and a half.”

He’s holding a Blackhawks snapback upside down with little pieces of paper in it. He brandishes it at them.

“Uh,” says Dylan, but Connor is still blushing and not looking at him, so Dylan takes a piece of paper out of the hat. He unfolds it and squints at Professor Saad’s handwriting.

“Two hundred and sixty thousand dollar yearly income, five kids, one full-time career partner, one stay at home partner,” he reads. “What the, uh, heck, Professor Saad? Five kids? One of us makes over two hundred thousand and the other doesn’t work at all?”

“Oh, I forgot I made that one,” says Professor Saad. “Good luck with that.”

Connor has apparently gotten over his incapacitating embarrassment because he’s leaning into Dylan’s space to stare at the paper. “Five kids?!”

“Two points extra if you name them,” says Professor Saad and he moves on.

Someone throws a wad of paper at Dylan’s head. It’s Alex, of course, sitting behind them and grimacing. His girlfriend is texting someone under the table and ignoring them all. “What’d you and Connor get?” he asks.

“Taxes?” offers Connor. “Which is fine. Contributing to society is important.”

“We’re rich and we have five kids,” says Dylan. “But I think we can afford them, that’s how rich we are.”

“Oh, fuck you,” says Alex. “We got a combined fifty-k household, two kids, and three dogs.”

“We could have gotten dogs?” demands Dylan. He’s always wanted a dog. He’s wanted a dog more than children, to be honest. He’s wanted a Papillon since basically forever even though his brothers make fun of him all the time for it.

“Don’t look so excited, Strome.”

Dylan elbows Connor in the side. “We’re getting a dog,” he says.

Connor scrunches up his nose again. Dylan wants to kiss his nose but he can’t for a lot of reasons, like how it’s inappropriate. He dismisses the idea immediately, burying it in the graveyard of inappropriate thoughts he’s had in class. 

“Okay,” says Connor. “I want a big dog.”

“I can work with that,” says Dylan.

Professor Saad whistles at the class from the front of the room. Connor and Dylan turn around.

“So this project is worth 200 points,” says Professor Saad. “But I’ll be giving out plenty of extra credit points for creativity. I want you all to do well. If you have questions, need advice, run into problems, either in this project or in life, come talk to me, okay? I’m here to help you.” 

He looks so hopeful for their futures. He looks like really wants them succeed in life. Dylan is reminded that this is Professor Saad’s first year on tenure track. He’s doing pretty good, for someone who is only a handful of years older than Dylan. Dylan has no plans to go into academia because he knows he’d suck at it but he thinks Professor Saad is going to do well. Dylan doesn’t really have any big plans for how to succeed in life, but it’s nice that Professor Saad has faith in them.

“If you don’t have any pressing questions, I’ll let you go early,” says Professor Saad.

No one has any pressing questions but that’s probably because it’s right before the brief break between morning classes and afternoon classes and everyone wants to leave. He dismisses them and everyone grabs their stuff.

Dylan grabs Connor’s elbow as Connor stands up. Connor startles. Dylan lets go immediately. “Sorry. Give me your number? We should get started on this early.” Connor doesn’t seem like he’ll be dead weight, especially since it’s only the two of them, but Dylan really doesn’t want to be doing this in a rush before the due date.

“Oh. Yeah.” Connor takes Dylan’s phone and types in his number. “Text me, so I can get your number?”

“Yeah, for sure,” says Dylan. “Maybe we can get together this week?”

“I’m free tomorrow,” says Connor. “Hey, I’m supposed to meet a friend for lunch. Do you need anything else from me?”

About a million jokes go through Dylan’s head but luckily Alex swats Dylan on the head before he can say any of them. “Let the man go eat lunch,” he says.

“Yeah, we’re good,” says Dylan. “Tomorrow is fine. I’ll text.”

Connor disappears into the crush of students running to the cafeteria for a quick meal between classes. Dylan rubs his head where Alex hit him.

“He’s kinda weird, right?” says Alex.

“I like him,” says Dylan. “He’s really cute. Shut up, Kitty, stop making that face.”

“Gross,” says Alex. “Don’t fuck him until after the semester is over, okay? I’m making that rule right now.”

Dylan flips him off and texts Connor a quick _hey this is dylan :)_

 _Hi Dylan_ says Connor and that’s it for their conversation because Alex hits Dylan on the head again and drags him out of the room so they can get lunch with Clayton.

 

;;

 

Dylan finds out pretty quickly that Connor is very weird and awkward but since he’s a Canadian Lit major, it’s not like it’s a huge surprise. All the Lit majors are super weird. Connor is nice though and he showers which is more than Dylan can say about half the guys in the Math department. Also, Dylan finds out that he’s stacked the second time they meet up.

“Bro,” says Dylan, boggling at Connor, who answers his door with a shirt in one hand. Connor has turned brilliantly red in the face and chest. His chest is almost incredible as his face. “What the fuck.”

“Come on, come on, get in here,” says Connor, grabbing his arm and pulling him in. “I thought you were Leon, God.”

“You just...answer your door shirtless?” asks Dylan. “Like, that’s a thing you do?” Frankly he’s beginning to think he should have made friends with Connor years ago.

“I thought you were Leon!” says Connor. “I wasn’t expecting you!”

“You told me to come over,” says Dylan. “Like, you texted me and everything. Five minutes ago.”

“I was expecting you to take more than five minutes!” Connor starts buttoning up his shirt. He’s still bright red. It kinda sucks that Dylan can’t stare at the broad expanse of his chest but the flannel button up is nice too. Baby blue is a good color on him.

“I live on campus too,” Dylan reminds him. “I live like, one building over.”

“Okay,” says Connor. He looks around at his room, which is tidy in some places and overflowing with books and notebooks in others, before grabbing his peacoat. “It’s cold outside, right?”

“Yeah,” says Dylan. It’s the end of October and way too early for it to be as cold as it is, but whatever, climate change in rural Ontario.

Connor is in the process of doing up his coat when there’s a sharp knock on his door. Connor sighs and opens it.

Leon Draisaitl stands in the corridor outside of Connor’s room. He raises an eyebrow when he sees Dylan slouching in the middle of the room.

“You look good,” says Leon to Connor.

Dylan stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and tries to look non-threatening. He’s super tall but he needs a haircut so hopefully it all evens out.

“Thanks,” says Connor. He must be doing some complicated facial expression conversation with Leon, because Leon smiles almost imperceptibly and nods. “Good.”

“Great,” says Connor. “Uh. Dylan and I have to go work on our project. We’re going to the library before it closes.”

“Have fun,” says Leon.

Connor does up the rest of his coat and grabs his messenger bag. He hustles Dylan out of the room and locks his door carefully. Leon watches this with a bland expression on his face.

“Bye,” Dylan says to him.

“I’ll text you,” says Connor. “We can get dinner later?”

“Yes,” says Leon. He watches them go. He's European so he really shouldn't be this intimidating.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” Dylan says to Connor when they’re safely in the stairwell and out of earshot of Leon. He wouldn’t have spent the whole class period today trying to flirt with Connor if he’d known.

“I don’t,” says Connor. “Leon is just my best friend. He um, just wanted to make sure I looked good.”

Dylan wonders why Leon would care if Connor looks good to go to the library if he’s not dating Connor but he figures it’s not really his business. Leon’s also a Lit major, so it makes sense that they’d be weird best friends together. Not like Dylan and Alex are any better, to be honest.

It's freezing outside, the winter sun weak behind a cloudy sky. Dylan hopes the library is empty; it should be, because it’s Friday and everyone has better things to do than go to the library and do homework in the late afternoon, but Dylan would be lying to himself if he just didn’t selfishly want to have a couple hours alone with Connor in a quiet space. They’ve met up once before between Connor’s classes in the humanities building student lounge and it was fine, but loud and Dylan kept getting distracted by how indie everyone looked. They hadn’t really gotten anything done except that Dylan is now reading Margaret Atwood’s poetry because Connor had quoted one of her poems with a small smile.

The library is almost empty, only a few nerds scattered around at the information commons computers and a handful of freshmen on the first floor who are giggling more than studying. Dylan lets Connor lead them up the stairs to the fourth floor where the stacks are a little deeper and everything feels quieter. Dylan gave Alex Galchenyuk a blowjob up here one time. It was hot. He wonders if Connor would be into that. Probably not. He dismisses that as another inappropriate idea.

Connor drops into a small rounded table next to a window overlooking the road that curves around the campus. He puts his messenger bag on the table. Dylan sits down next to him, setting his backpack on the floor. Connor looks out the window, lets out a small sigh, and looks at Dylan.

“So we’re married,” says Connor. He looks awkward and uncomfortable, as per usual. “And we’re rich and we have kids. What are we doing? Where do we begin?”

“I think we should live in Toronto,” says Dylan. “Also, I want to be a hockey dad. We have enough kids for a team.”

Connor brightens instantly. “We can afford to put five kids through juniors,” he says. “I bet if we invested in them, we could get at least one in the NHL. No wait, maybe two.”

“Or the CWHL,” Dylan says. “I want at least one daughter. Actually, I think we should have two daughters.”

Connor pulls a notebook out of his bag and starts taking notes. Dylan pulls one of his notebooks out of his bag too, though it’s more because he feels like he should be contributing to the ideation than because he thinks his notes will be of any help.

“Three boys, two girls, all hockey,” says Connor. “Who wants to be the working dad?”

They stare at each other. The idea of being a stay-at-home hockey dad is incredibly appealing for both of them, Dylan guesses. At least, it is to him.

“You’re the math major,” says Connor finally. “I study Canadian lit. I have no clue what I’m going to do with it.”

“Fine,” says Dylan. “I’ll work in finance. Like a bank? Gross. Maybe I’ll go into tech. I can’t program for shit but maybe Kitty can get me a job doing whatever.”

“Okay, but what do you really want to do?” asks Connor.

Connor looks like he actually cares about the answer and won’t make fun of him for it, unlike every single other person who asks what Dylan wants to do with a math major. Dylan is weirdly touched.

“I just like statistics,” says Dylan. “I want to be a statistician. Like the pay sucks and you need a master’s degree for most jobs, but--”

Connor is already writing down _statistician -- government?? business??_ on paper. Then he bites his lip and writes _NHL??_.

Dylan is overwhelmed by the weird thoughtfulness of Connor picking up on the fact that Dylan has pretty much only ever wanted to work in the NHL and writing it into their project as his improbable future. He wants to do something, anything, to Connor so bad that it kinda sucks for him. Connor catches him staring and half-smiles. “This way you’re still a hockey dad,” he explains.

“MFEO,” Dylan manages to get out. “What the fuck, you’re perfect.”

“Please don’t put me on a pedestal,” says Connor. “I’m not perfect. I’m, like, okay. At best.”

“You’re my domestic partner and the father of my five children,” says Dylan. “I will aggressively put you on a pedestal until death do us part.”

Connor blushes and it’s very cute. Dylan bumps his shoulder against Connor’s. He feels like Connor’s bright pink face would be worth getting caught by security for having sex in the library. He doesn’t really think Connor will go for that. Also, he promised Alex he wouldn’t fuck Connor until after the semester, which was a really tragic promise in hindsight.

“Um, are you okay?” says Connor. Dylan realises he’s just been staring at him. “Are you having a stroke?”

“Yeah, totally,” says Dylan quickly. “I mean no, I’m not having a stroke but I am okay.” He taps his pen against his notebook. “Toronto. Five kids. Hockey dads. Uh, what else are we supposed to do?”

“Oh my god,” says Connor, but he sounds like he’s becoming fond. Dylan smiles and Connor smiles back.

 

;;

 

They end up texting a lot, because Connor’s lit classes apparently get really intense after the midterm break and it’s hard to find time to get together more than once a week. Also, Connor is taking an upper-level creative nonfiction class because he’s required to take two creative writing classes for his major and it’s kicking his ass. He says that creative nonfiction is more tolerable than poetry or fiction and he seems to hate and love it. Dylan can relate. His Visual Art and Geometry class both sucks and rules.

 _I don’t like writing about my feelings_ says Connor when Dylan asks him how his class went that afternoon.

 _because you dont have any?_ asks Dylan.

 _I have a lot of feelings. I just don’t like writing about them and sharing them with a bunch of people who are judging me because they spent the past three years writing instead of reading_ says Connor. Dylan is impressed by how he can sound so disdainful over text with proper punctuation. It’s delightful.

 _free to meet up tomorrow?_ says Dylan. They have just over four weeks left in the semester and while he thinks they’ve made fairly good progress, he still wants to see Connor. Partly so they can go over all their work together instead of over email and partly because he just wants to have Connor to himself without Alex or Clayton or Leon hanging around.

 _Library? Or somewhere else?_ says Connor.

 _coffee? at the blue line?_ says Dylan. The Blue Line is a coffee shop in town that is pretty tolerant of college students camping out there as long as they buy something every hour. Also it’s run by former hockey players who got knocked out of the game by severe concussions, so the whole place is softly lit and the owners make an effort to keep it calm. Dylan likes going there when he’s stressed. He’s not stressed now but he feels like Connor might be so it might be good for him.

 _I haven’t been there in a while. Sounds good_ says Connor.

 _meet you there at 9? they open at 8:30 so if we go early we can get a good seat_ says Dylan.

 _Or we could walk together_ says Connor. _If you want to._

 _of course i want to_ says Dylan. _meet me outside my dorm at 8:45?_

 _It’s a good thing you’re my domestic partner. I wouldn’t get up this early on a Saturday for anyone else_ says Connor. 

Dylan’s heart beats a little faster when he reads that.

 _okay hubby_ he says. It’s not his best work but he’s having a moment.

 _Gross_ says Connor.

 _see you tomorrow_ says Dylan.

_Looking forward to it._

Dylan is up and out of his suite before Alex is even awake. They had a rare night in, doing homework together until Alex fell asleep in front of his computer and Dylan had to put him to bed. It was an unusually early night for Dylan but it means he isn’t rushing around before meeting Connor. Well, he has time to shower and shave at least.

Connor is waiting for him outside of his dorm when Dylan emerges. He squints at Dylan. “Your hair is going to freeze,” he says. He has a beanie pulled down tight over his head.

Dylan shrugs. It is cold but he isn’t worried about his hair. He forgot his gloves but he doesn’t feel like going back up to get them. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be fine.”

Connor looks at him and then takes off his beanie. He holds it out to Dylan. “Here,” he says.

“Come on, Connor, it’ll be okay.” says Dylan. “It’s not that cold.”

Connor puts the beanie on Dylan’s head and tugs it until it covers Dylan’s ears. He has to reach a little; the three inches Dylan has on him makes a difference, Dylan thinks. His cheeks are pink but Dylan’s not sure if it’s from the cold or if it’s because Connor just has an allergic reaction to Dylan thinking he’s cute. He must know that Dylan thinks everything Connor does is adorable. Dylan has never been subtle in his life.

“Let’s go,” says Connor. 

The walk to The Blue Line is only fifteen minutes and Dylan spends the entire time trying to get out of Connor what exactly is so bad about his creative nonfiction course. Connor is vague but it has something to do with writing prompts, pretentious creative writing students, and possibly his own insecurity. Well, he doesn’t say the last part out loud but Dylan can sort of read into it. Connor is kind of insecure about his own self-worth which sucks because he’s an all around great guy and Dylan doesn’t just think that because he’s crushing.

The Blue Line is warm and quiet. Dylan and Connor drop their backpacks on a couch by the window and get coffee and croissants.

“Pretty early for a date,” says the barista.

“Homework date,” says Dylan. Connor ducks his head. 

“Woof,” she says. “You’re up this early in the morning for homework? Good luck. Keep it down while you study though, yeah?”

“We will,” says Connor.

They grab their coffee and food and settle down at the couches. Connor pulls out his tablet and Dylan pulls out his laptop. “What do we have left to do?” Connor asks.

They spend forty-five minutes going over their notes for the past four weeks. It’s hard because half of it was over email and half of it was over text. Connor ends up copying and pasting their texts into an email and Dylan organizes their emails into a Google doc and throws all the articles they’ve found in a folder on Google drive.

“This is a mess,” says Dylan. Connor leans over to look at his computer, brow furrowed. Dylan tries to explain: “We’ve done a lot of work but there’s absolutely no organization.”

“Huh,” says Connor. “Share that doc with me.”

“We also have like ten relevant articles for the literature review and we need, uh, six more for the minimum requirement. Also, a financial review. I started a spreadsheet for that but it’s pretty basic? And we need that narrative at the end, which you started writing but I feel like we can’t really get into until we finish the other stuff.”

Connor hums. Dylan shares the entire folder with him.

“Okay,” says Connor after scanning its contents. “What are your interests in this project? I mean, what do you think you’re best at?”

Dylan’s main strengths in life are kissing cute boys, giving blow jobs and math. He thinks Connor might die of embarrassment or maybe just snap completely and kill him if he says any of that out loud, so he goes with: “math and research.”

“I’m good at writing and research,” says Connor. “Okay. You do the financials and get articles, I’ll also get articles and write the literature review and narrative. The literature review should be pretty easy and I think I can write the narrative pretty quickly once we have everything else together.”

“Awesome,” says Dylan. “What else do we need?”

“More coffee,” says Connor. And then he smiles. “And we have to name our kids.”

“I’m too young for children,” says Dylan, sadly. He gets up. “You just want regular coffee?”

“Can I get a chocolate mocha?”

“Fancy,” says Dylan. “Good thing I’m rich and work full time and can keep us living in luxury.”

“Are you really rich?” asks Connor.

Dylan snorts. “No. But you’re worth it.”

Connor smiles down at his tablet. Dylan taps his knuckles against Connor’s head. Connor bats his hand away, still smiling. Dylan goes to get their drinks.

They spend the rest of the morning doing research and drinking coffee. They take a break from their final project for a little while so Connor can glare at his creative nonfiction homework and Dylan can do some math.

“What’s wrong?” asks Dylan, glancing over at Connor, who is looking particularly annoyed at his essay.

“I don’t like what I’ve written,” says Connor. “Actually, what I don’t like is writing about my memories for a bunch assholes to critique.”

That’s the strongest language Dylan has ever heard Connor use, so Connor must be seriously upset. He bumps his shoulder against Connor’s. “Do you have to be so honest?”

“Uh, yeah?” says Connor. “That’s the whole point of creative nonfiction?”

“Yeah, but can’t you, I don’t know, make up some soft shit that isn’t so honest that you’ll be upset when people tell you your memories aren’t precious?” asks Dylan.

Connor stares at him. “No,” he says flatly. “Professor Ouellette expects a certain caliber of work from me now.”

Dylan shrugs. “Okay,” he says. “Just trying to help.”

“No, I know. I’m sorry,” says Connor. “I’m just. Uh, whatever, it’s fine. Professor Ouellette writes helpful comments and gives me good grades, but everyone else...every time I present something to the class, I get torn apart for not being real enough. Nothing I write is ever good enough for them. It’s so stupid, I’m a great writer in lit classes. I tutor freshman and sophomores! But to everyone in creative writing classes, I’m not good enough.”

“Hey,” says Dylan. He bumps his shoulder against Connor’s again but leaves it there. “You’re a great writer. It doesn’t matter what your classmates say, right? Just Ouellette. Just think about how everyone else is just ripping on you for the sake of tearing you down when they critique your shit. Like, what they’re saying doesn’t even matter because they’re not doing it because they care or anything. It doesn’t matter.”

“I guess,” says Connor. “It still sucks.” He sags against Dylan with a groan, dropping his head on Dylan’s shoulder. It’s a rare show of physicality from him and Dylan cherishes it immediately.

“You’ll be fine,” says Dylan. “Four more weeks and you’re done with that bullshit.”

He presses his cheek against Connor’s head briefly. “Want to go back to naming our children?” he asks.

Connor sits up, but leaves their shoulders touching. “We are not naming our children after hockey players,” he says.

“Just one,” says Dylan. “Timothy Lief McDavid-Strome.”

“No, that’s a stupid name,” says Connor, and that argument carries them for the next thirty minutes until it’s time to get more coffee.

 

;;

 

Connor and Dylan are so on top of their shit by the end of the semester that Dylan is kind of secretly thinking they may get bonus points. When Professor Saad makes the whole class sign up for two-on-one office hour appointments a week before the project is due so he can check on their progress, neither of them are worried. He’s pleased to hear that Dylan has a high level job in the NHL and Connor is writing fake memoirs for made-up hockey players in between taking care of their beautiful adopted children. He raises an eyebrow at them living in Oakville and supporting five kids and teens in hockey but Dylan is ready with their financial planning spreadsheet to prove that it is possible. Professor Saad tells them to go account for all possible expenses, right down to furniture for their house.

“And how is your marriage working out?” Professor Saad asks. 

“Well I love him very much,” says Dylan, promptly with the cheesiest smile he can manage this late in the semester. 

Connor turns bright red. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

“No, but seriously,” says Professor Saad. “What kind of relationship decisions are you making?”

“I mean, this is just a project,” says Dylan. “We’re not actually married. We don’t have a real relationship. I mean, we’re friends but we don’t have a real love relationship or anything. Like we’re not having sex.”

Which is real fucking unfortunate for Dylan, to tell the truth, but he’s not about to tell a professor that.

“Hmm,” says Professor Saad. Dylan doesn’t like that one of voice. It sounds like homework. He looks over at Connor but Connor is looking at his lap.

“Do you remember the article I had you read on relationship negotiation? The second week of the semester after it became abundantly clear that none of you had ever had a real conversation about what it means to be in a romantic relationship?” Professor Saad turns around and opens a filing cabinet. “Let me see if I have a copy.”

Dylan vaguely remembers that, but only just. He looks over at Connor again. Connor is biting his lip and looking at Dylan. He looks a little troubled. Dylan puts a hand on Connor’s knee and squeezes it. Connor jumps a little and then relaxes. Dylan quirks an eyebrow at him and Connor shakes his head. Dylan squeezes his knee again and then takes his hand away.

Professor Saad turns around, slamming the filing cabinet door shut with his elbow. “I can’t find it,” he says cheerfully. “Oh well. Anyway, here’s my question I want you two to discuss: what kind of relationship do you want?”

“Hypothetical or real?” says Connor.

Professor Saad shrugs. “Your friendship now is very different than your hypothetical married life with five kids and a million dollar home. But I’m more interested in how you feel now.”

“About each other?” asks Dylan.

“No, just in general. What kind of relationship do you want with a partner? How you answer that question determines how you build a life together.”

This is getting way too real for Dylan. He’s starting to get kind of emotional. He’s always been kind of an emotional guy and he’s fine with that but there’s having all of his emotions on his face and then there’s crying in his weird professor’s office because all he’s all emo about marriage.

“Uh,” says Connor. Dylan glances at him and is relieved to see that Connor looks like he’s about to die of barely suppressed horror.

“Just think about it,” says Professor Saad. “We have some reading next week on how wealth influences relationships, which should help, though I’m equally interested in your personal thoughts on relationships.”

“Create a life,” says Connor, sounding small and weary.

“Exactly.”

They can’t get out of Professor Saad’s office fast enough. In fact, Connor is walking faster than Dylan has ever seen him. It isn’t until they’re well out of the faculty’s office wing and pushing through the doors of the humanities building to the frigid cold that either of them say anything to each other.

“Do you want to come over later and buy furniture,” says Connor, flat and nearly toneless.

“And like, talk?”

“No,” says Connor. “I just think we should furnish our house. Maybe plan for the kids’ futures. Figure out how to pay off student loans and mortgages. Stuff like that. I don’t want to talk.”

“Yeah,” says Dylan. He’s a little relieved, a little disappointed. “Yeah, sounds good.”

They walk through campus quickly, eager to get out of the cold. Dylan stops in front of his building and fumbles with cold hands to get his key card out of his pocket. Connor stops too.

“I’ll text you,” says Connor. “I have to do some reading for my dystopia class.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Dylan. He finally manages to swipe his card. He’s shaking as he pulls open the door. “Just let me know. I’ve got. Stuff.”

Connor nods and turns around and power walks to his building across the quad. Dylan watches him go and then hurries into his building. He vaults up the stairs as fast as he can to the suite he shares with Alex.

Alex is deep into some programming shit with noise-cancelling headphones on in the common area when Dylan unlocks the door and stumbles in. He probably only notices Dylan because Dylan trips over his own shoes as he’s kicking them off. He looks up, nods once. Dylan gives him a thumbs up and goes into his room, shutting the door. He throws his backpack on the floor and crawls into bed. After a moment, he picks up his phone and calls his brother.

“What’s up, Dyl?” says Ryan. “Everything all right?”

Ryan is pretty much the only person Dylan can call without texting first, aside from his parents, because Ryan always picks up and Ryan never worries about him when he calls out of the blue unless it’s the middle of the night. Dylan loves his brothers so much, especially now that he’s older and taller.

“There’s a guy,” says Dylan.

“Okay,” says Ryan. “What’s up with this guy?”

“I really like him,” says Dylan. He rolls over until he’s facing the wall and can pull his covers over his head.

“Sure,” says Ryan. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” says Dylan, except he is because it’s been a long emotional forty-five minutes and he just wants a hug from someone who loves him unconditionally.

“Did he break your heart? Do you need me to fly over and kick his ass?”

“No! He doesn’t know I like him. Well, maybe he does, but we’re just friends. I’ll be fine or whatever, it just sucks for right now. We’re doing a group project and we’re married in it with five kids and it’s turning into this whole thing.”

Ryan takes a moment to parse that. “Okay,” he says finally. “Have you considered doing anything about this?”

“I told Alex I wouldn’t fuck him until after the semester ended.”

“Dude, too much information,” says Ryan.

“You know this about me,” says Dylan.

“I know it, yeah, but I don’t want to know about it,” says Ryan. “But whatever. You like this guy, you’re married to him for homework and you’re not sleeping with him. Sounds like a perfect storm of shit for you. Have you considered talking to him?”

“That’s the whole problem,” says Dylan, well and truly miserable. “Our professor asked us to consider what we want in a relationship. Like, as a hypothetically married couple but also as humans. And not with each other, but it’s hard to separate what I want in a relationship with anyone when he’s right there. I can’t tell him that I like him because it’s our homework to talk about our feelings.”

“Ah,” says Ryan. “All that for homework? That’s so fucked up. You’re 21 years old, it’s not like you know any of that anyway.”

Dylan does though, that’s the thing, and he’s afraid that by talking about it out loud, it won’t come true, it will sound stupid, it will sound ridiculous. He knows what he exactly wants in a relationship; he wants to be so in love that he gets to be married. It doesn’t even matter if the person he falls in love with hates dogs or hockey or whatever. Dylan just wants someone he can love with his whole heart. It’s an intense feeling and it feels unattainable, most of the time. He thinks Connor will laugh, he worries that Connor will stop talking to him.

Dylan has a lot of big emotions right now and they all hurt a lot. He probably has hypothermia on top of it because he’s still shivering.

“Hey kiddo,” says Ryan. “Take a deep breath for me, okay?”

Dylan takes a deep breath and tries to settle the ache in his chest. He wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand.

“I love you so much, right?” says Ryan. “You’ll be fine. Either this passes or it doesn’t. Either you eventually get over it or you get together after the semester ends. It’s gonna be fine.”

Dylan takes another deep, shuddering breath. “I love you too.”

“Go take a nap or watch Marie Kondo or something soothing,” says Ryan. “Don’t do any more homework today. It’s Friday, you can chill for a day.”

“Yeah,” says Dylan, thinking of Connor and how Dylan gets to see him later. “Yeah, thanks.”

“I love you,” says Ryan again. “I’ll see you in two weeks when the semester ends. I’m picking you up from the airport, I already worked it out with Mom and Dad.”

“Bring Matty,” says Dylan.

“Like that little shit would stay home when he could get quality bro time. Speaking of which, I gotta check in with him. It’s our night to chat. You’re gonna be okay, Dyl.”

Dylan nods and then realizes Ryan can’t see him. “Thanks Ryan.”

Ryan promises to call again soon. Dylan hangs up and spends the rest of the afternoon in bed watching Marie Kondo fix other people’s lives. Alex barges in at one point and joins him with a bag of microwave popcorn.

“Lawson Crouse is throwing a party tonight, you should come,” he says when they finish an episode. “You need to cheer up.”

“I told Connor I’d work on our group project tonight.”

“On a Friday? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t thinking. Professor Saad was really hard on us, I guess.”

“Oh, fuck, tell me about it. I’m way too young to think about serious relationships. Like, I love my girlfriend so much but we’re young, you know? I don’t want to think about marrying her for another two years at least.”

Dylan nods. “Yeah. Well, maybe I can get Connor to come. He spends a lot of time alone, I think. It’d probably be good for him to get out of his room and stop doing homework for an hour.”

“Lit majors,” says Alex with a snort. “Those dudes are so weird.” He pats Dylan’s knee. “Do your best to drag him out, yeah? I bet you both could use a night out if you’re this fucked up from talking to Professor Saad.”

“Yeah, no, you’re right.”

Alex leaves the room. Dylan starts another episode and eats the rest of Alex’s popcorn.

 

;;

 

Connor texts him around 8. _I’m free now_ he says. _Come over whenever._

Really pathetic that it makes Dylan feel better just knowing he can show up at Connor’s room in five minutes or two hours and Connor will be waiting. Not waiting in a tragic Victorian way, Dylan hopes, but in a way where Connor’s doing other meaningful stuff but he’s still okay with Dylan coming over whenever Dylan is ready.

Dylan drags himself out of bed, washes his face in the bathroom, and puts on his shoes. He grabs an unopened bottle of honey whiskey on a whim. If they’re going to spend Friday night budgeting furniture, they might as well do it drunk. Also, he’s got a feeling Connor will be more likely to go to a party if he’s already got a little alcohol in him.

He gets all the way outside when he realizes he forgot his coat. It’s fucking freezing, looks like it might even snow tonight or tomorrow. He doesn’t bother weighing the pros and cons of turning around and going up three flights of stairs to get his coat; he just books it across the quad to Connor’s building. He doesn’t even have to get his card out of his pocket because Jacob Chychrun and Brendan Perlini are coming out the door when he stops, out of breath and shivering.

“The fuck is your coat?” says Jacob. He holds open the door but makes Dylan duck underneath his arm. Dylan elbows him in the side for it.

“Forgot it,” he says. “You guys headed to Lawson’s?”

“Yeah bro,” says Brendan. “Where are you headed?”

Dylan holds up the whiskey. “Homework.”

Jacob high-fives him. “That’s my boy,” he says and then, “what the fuck, you’re freezing. Go fuck whoever you’re going to fuck and get that body heat going.”

Dylan says, “come on, man, you know I don’t hook up when I’ve been drinking.”

“Okay but you made out with Alex Galchenyuk for like two hours when you were a freshman and drunk for the first time,” says Jacob. Brendan starts laughing.

“First of all, it was not the first time I was drunk, second of all, fuck you, third, kissing doesn’t count. I have to go, goodbye.” Dylan turns around and heads up the stairs.

“See you at Lawson’s!” hollers Jacob. Dylan gives them a half-wave over his shoulder. The door slams shut behind them.

Connor answers his door wearing a hoodie and skinny jeans. Dylan is warm just looking at him.

“Did you seriously come here without a coat?” says Connor.

“Yeah, forgot it,” says Dylan.

“But you brought whiskey.”

“Connor,” says Dylan. “If we are going to spend a valuable Friday night budgeting for furniture and our children’s hockey gear, we are going to do it drunk.”

Connor ducks his head and smiles at that. He moves back to let Dylan in. Dylan steps out of his shoes when he sees that Connor is only wearing socks.

They sit on Connor’s bed with their feet hanging off the edge, shoulders touching. Connor makes Dylan take a notebook and create an honest-to-God spreadsheet so they can keep track of their spending; Dylan makes Connor do two shots with him. Connor is warm against him and Dylan wants to press closer until they’re sitting flush against each other, until he can throw his legs over Connor’s. He wants more than that, really, but he promised Alex and even if kissing Other Alex while drunk didn’t count as sex, he thinks that kissing Connor while doing homework is somehow worse. 

More than that, he kind of just really wants a hug is the thing, because the conversation with Professor Saad really messed him up, but even that would be too much. Connor might like him, might even like him-like him, but Dylan doesn’t want to ruin everything by being weird.

Dylan makes them do more shots until Connor is giggling to himself about thread counts and Dylan really can lean against him. He’s taller and Connor is slumped against him. He could rest his head against Connor’s if he wanted.

“This is so stupid,” says Connor, cheerful and open in that careless way very drunk people get sometimes. “I’m never going to get married so why am I worrying about bed sheets.”

“Why aren’t you getting married?” says Dylan. He was a little sleepy but he’s waking up. He’s pretty sure he added that last column wrong.

“‘Cause I’m alone and I’ve always been alone and I’ll always be alone.” Connor doesn’t sound distressed about it, so Dylan is really confused.

“And you’re happy about that?” he asks.

“Not really, but that’s just how it is with me,” says Connor. “No one wants to date me. It’s fine, I guess.”

His honesty and self-deprecation is brutal. Dylan kind of regrets the alcohol now but it’s too late, they’re two-thirds of the way through the bottle. 

“I would date you,” says Dylan, alcohol making him stupid. He’s not even being brave, putting his heart on the line. He’s just being stupid. Connor reads as much into it and nothing more.

“Only because you’re my fake domestic partner,” he says. “So you have to date me. Oh, should we plan for date nights? I think we should go on overnights.”

“We have a five year old,” says Dylan. His heart is kind of breaking except he doesn’t really have a reason for it to do so. It’s Connor who is the marriage defeatist, not him. Maybe his heart is breaking for Connor. Kind of sucks that he decided he can’t kiss Connor right now to make Connor realize he’s marriage material or whatever, but he doesn’t want to drunkenly make out with Connor out of pity. Connor deserves way better than that. He deserves sober makeouts, at the very least.

Dylan focuses on the notebook in front of him, the potential names for their children that he scrawled on the top of the page. It makes him feel a little bit better.

“Every parent needs a break,” says Connor, impatiently. “Come on Dylan, let’s go somewhere nice.”

Dylan tries to think of nice places he could go with Connor but all he can think of is hockey rinks. God, he really needs to get a life. “Scotiabank executive suite?”

“Sure,” says Connor. “Write down a million dollars in the fun column for Maple Leafs tickets.”

Dylan laughs despite himself and scrawls his best estimate at an executive suite in Scotiabank Arena.

“Pass me the whiskey,” says Connor, making a weird one-handed grabbing motion at the bottle of whiskey tucked against Dylan’s side. He kind of just ends up hitting Dylan in the chest. The lights go out.

“Dramatic,” says Dylan, looking over at Connor. The only light in the room is Connor’s laptop. Connor grins at him.

Several people run down the hallway screaming with laughter. “Ladies, we got a snow week coming!” yells Maddie Rooney. Dylan didn’t know she lived in Connor’s building and it makes him smile. He’s liked her ever since she slapped him in the face for breaking her buddy’s heart sophomore year.

Connor gets up on wobbly legs, walks over to the door and pulls it open. “Maddie, how do you know?” he asks.

“Have you looked outside in the past four hours or have you been too busy sucking Strome’s dick?” she says. “It’s a verifiable blizzard, buddy.”

“I haven’t--” says Connor. “Uh. Thanks Maddie.”

Dylan gets up, unsteady, and pulls up the shades. “Holy shit,” he says. “Connor, look at the snow.”

It’s snowing heavily. He can barely see across quad to the building across from Connor’s but it looks like all the lights in that building are out too. Snow is already piling up in drifts against buildings. It’s beautiful except for how they’re screwed.

“God,” Dylan says. “I hope the power comes back on soon before we freeze to death.”

Connor shuts and locks his door. He comes to stand next to Dylan at the window. Their arms brush.

“Wow,” Connor says after a moment. He picks up the bottle of whiskey and takes a swig. He grimaces; Dylan can barely see it in the dark of the room. Dylan is exhausted of all a sudden.

“I’m going back to my room,” says Dylan. “I’m tired. I think we got enough work done today.”

“No,” says Connor. “Stay here. You’ll freeze to death out there trying to run back. Or you’ll fall asleep in a snow drift and then freeze to death. Or you’ll get lost in the snow and end up in the woods and then freeze to death there too. Or your key card won’t work and you’ll be stuck outside all night. Or--”

“Connor,” Dylan says. “What the fuck.”

“Don’t go,” says Connor and he sounds uncertain all of a sudden, the alcohol-fueled easy-going persona buried again underneath a whole demeanor of awkwardness and shy sincerity. “Please don’t go. Just stay here tonight.”

Dylan is so weak for him. “Okay.”

Connor doesn’t have an extra toothbrush so Dylan just uses Connor’s mouthwash and tries not to throw up at the burn in the back of his mouth. 

Leon comes into the bathroom, face towel in one hand, toothbrush in the other, and stops. Dylan waves at him and spits into the sink.

“What are you doing here?” Leon asks. It’s an oddly loaded question. Dylan suspects Connor texted Leon while Dylan wasn’t paying attention.

“I don’t know,” says Dylan, honestly. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You’re an idiot,” says Leon.

“Sorry,” say Dylan, because he definitely deserves that for getting Connor drunk and flirting with him all night.

Leon might roll his eyes but it’s hard to tell because the only light in the bathroom is coming from the exit sign illuminated above the stairwell just outside the bathroom. He goes to the sink and turns on the tap, ignoring Dylan.

Dylan rubs his mouth with the back of his hand and then washes his hands.

When he gets back to Connor’s room, Connor throws sweatpants, a well-worn Leafs sweatshirt, and thick socks at him. Dylan has broader shoulders than Connor so the sweater is tight across his shoulders and chest, but it’ll keep him warm. He sits down on the floor.

“Dylan, what are you doing?” says Connor. He’s shimmying out of his skinny jeans. Dylan looks away to give him some privacy.

“Sleeping on your floor?”

“I’m not making you sleep on the floor! Get in the bed.”

“Where are you sleeping? I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“You’re not,” says Connor. Dylan looks up. Connor is wearing sweatpants now. “We’re sharing.”

“Uh,” says Dylan. It kind of screams bad idea. He hasn’t platonically shared a bed with anyone but his brothers in years.

“You’re being weird,” says Connor. He holds out his hands to Dylan. Dylan grabs them and pulls himself up. “Stop being weird. Get into bed.”

“You’re weird,” mumbles Dylan and he sits down on the bed.

Connor crawls around him and jams himself against the wall. “Come on, Dylan,” he says, tugging on his sleeve.

Dylan pushes back the covers and lies down. Connor wiggles to get under the covers next to him. It’s deeply physically uncomfortable for a couple of long minutes as they try to fit together because while Dylan might be a bit of a beanpole and Connor tries to take up as little space as possible, they’re both still over six feet tall and there’s just a lot of them in a single bed. Connor finally ends up with his head on Dylan’s shoulder, Dylan’s arm awkwardly wrapped around him. Connor’s legs are tangled up in Dylan’s. He throws an arm across Dylan’s chest and tucks himself close. There’s not really any other option.

“Is this okay?” Connor whispers. Dylan doesn’t know why Connor’s whispering; he can still hear Maddie and her friends drunkenly singing Ariana Grande in the stairwell. It feels private, he guesses, this moment.

“Yeah,” says Dylan. “This is good.”

“Good,” echoes Connor. 

They’re silent for so long that Dylan thinks Connor might have fallen asleep. If he thought he was tired before, he’s awake now, with Connor wrapped up on him. He’s so gone on Connor. It’s pretty pathetic.

“Hey,” whispers Connor. “Dylan?”

“Yeah?”

“I think we should get a California king,” Connor says.

Dylan laughs, squeezing Connor’s shoulder. “Yeah, a little more space might be nice,” he says.

He can feel it when Connor presses his face against Dylan’s shoulder, can feel Connor’s mouth turning up in a smile. He can feel it when Connor’s breath evens out as he falls asleep.

Dylan takes a little longer to fall asleep, but that’s mostly because he wants to remember this moment.

 

;;

 

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s acutely aware of three things: Connor’s lights have turned back on as has the heat; the sun shining through the window is bright; Connor’s hand is curled against his hip. He rolls his head from side to side, stretching best he can with Connor all over him. His cheek brushes against Connor’s head.

“Hey,” says Connor, looking up at him.

“How long have you been awake?” Dylan asks. He’s definitely hungover and kind of overheating under the blanket and the weight of Connor but none of that seems too bad at the moment.

“Awhile,” says Connor.

“You could have woken me up,” says Dylan.

Connor shrugs, or attempts to, but he really just ends up rolling his shoulder into Dylan’s chest. “It’s fine.”

Dylan drums his fingers against Connor’s shoulder. Connor sighs softly. He leans up and kisses Dylan on the mouth so quickly that Dylan can’t react before Connor is pulling away.

A door slams down the hallway and there’s laughter as people run down the corridor. Connor climbs out of bed by basically rolling over Dylan’s entire body to get off. Dylan sits up. “Hey, uh--”

Someone knocks on the door. Connor opens the door without looking at Dylan.

“Hey, Connor,” says a kid Dylan vaguely recognizes from seeing around the STEM building but he doesn’t know the name of. “Maddie and Sarah are making mimosas in the common room if you give them five bucks. Can I borrow five bucks?”

“Which Sarah?” asks Connor. He picks up his jeans from the floor and pulls out his wallet. “I don’t trust Maddie’s mimosas.”

“Sarah Nurse. She knows how to make a mimosa,” says the guy. “Oh hey, Dylan Strome, right? I’m Jesse. I didn’t know you and Connor were friends.”

“Yeah,” says Dylan. “Nice to meet you?”

“I only have a twenty,” says Connor.

“Well, then you can guys can get a mimosa each and I can get two,” says Jesse.

“Okay,” says Connor. “Give us a second.”

He shuts the door. Dylan watches him get undressed and then re-dressed before he realizes he shouldn’t show up downstairs wearing Connor’s clothes. He gets out of bed and puts on his jeans and shoes. He keeps the sweatshirt on though.

Connor puts on his shoes and looks at Dylan. “You want a mimosa, right?”

What Dylan really wants is some French fries and to kiss Connor properly. But he can’t have everything he wants in life, at least not all at once. He touches Connor’s cheek, cups a hand on his jaw, runs his thumb across Connor’s lips. It’s not even a kiss but he can hear Connor’s breath catch.

“Oh,” says Connor. He’s bright red.

“Yeah,” says Dylan.

“Mimosas!” yells Jesse from the other side of the door.

“Shut up, Puljujärvi,” they hear Leon say and then some scuffling.

Connor touches his lips, then nods, like he’s coming to another conclusion about something. He opens the door and follows Jesse and Leon down the hall. Dylan trails behind them and pulls out his phone from his pocket. Alex and Clayton hurled abuse at him in their group chat all night when he didn’t show up to Lawson’s party until Alex drops an _you fucker you said you wouldn’t fuck connor!!!_ followed by Clayton posting a gif of Elsa’s magical girl transformation swagger in “Let it Go”.

 _i didnt fuck him_ says Dylan. _i slept over because it was cold and i didnt bring a jacket. also stop posting frozen gifs_

 _you’re the worst_ says Alex.

 _ur such a liar_ says Clayton.

“Hey,” says Dylan to Connor. “Selfie real fast?”

“What?”

Dylan wraps an arm around his shoulders, bonks his head against Connor’s, and takes a picture. 

“Uh,” says Connor.

 _would a liar take a selfie this pure?_ says Dylan.

 _no but a soft slut like you would_ says Alex. 

_are u wearing his sweatshirt???_ says Clayton. _omfg ur dating and u didnt tell us_

 _were not shut up_ says Dylan.

Connor says, “um, are you okay?”

“I’m super hungover,” says Dylan. “Look, we’re cute.” He shows Connor the photo.

“Okay,” says Connor, brow furrowed -- fair, because in the picture he looks extremely confused as he looks up at Dylan.

Dylan pockets his phone because some things are more important than his best friends dragging him for not sleeping with his fake domestic partner. Also, he’s about to run out of battery. He pats Connor’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says. Leon and Jesse are halfway down the stairwell already.

The common room is full of people in their pyjamas and sweats. Maddie takes Connor’s twenty dollars, rolling her eyes when she sees Dylan wearing Connor’s sweatshirt. She hands out Sarah’s mimosas in mismatched coffee mugs to the four of them.

Dylan’s coffee mug says “Have Courage to Be Kind”. He does try, he thinks, frowning at the mug. He always tries to be kind. He fell asleep with Connor on his chest and didn’t even wake up with a boner.

Connor turns to Dylan. “Cheers?” he says, holding up his mug. It has an illustration of Niall Horan on it.

Dylan taps his mug against Connor’s. “Cheers,” he says.

The mimosa is good. Dylan is happy.

 

;;

 

Maddie is extremely wrong about them having a snow week. By Sunday the roads in town and around the school are cleared; by Monday they’re back in class all battling hangovers. Dylan barely makes it through his morning Visual Arts and Geometry class without throwing up.

Professor Saad looks as calm and collected as he ever does when he enters the classroom. He sets his bag down and says, “wow, you guys look terrible. Did any of you do the reading?”

Connor raises his hand, but he’s one of two people to do so. It looks like it’s causing him great pain to admit he did the reading while everyone else was getting drunk and building snowmen all over campus.

“Well,” says Professor Saad. “I’m not mad, just disappointed. Actually, I’m not even disappointed, because I didn’t read the articles either. You guys want to work on your final projects for the period while I grade your discussion board posts from last week?”

There’s a murmur of assent. He waves a hand at them and pulls out his laptop. Connor turns to Dylan, pulling his tablet out of his bag. 

“I put all your math into a real spreadsheet, but it didn’t all add up when I ran the math formulas,” he says.

“Okay, I was super drunk doing some of that math,” says Dylan. “So that’s not really fair.”

But Connor is smiling at him, kind of small, like he’s got a secret. He unlocks his tablet and shows Dylan the spreadsheet.

“Oh, shit,” says Dylan, staring at the spreadsheet. He only remembers half of what he wrote on Friday but he didn’t think he was that wrong. Then he taps on a few cells and frowns. “You asshole, you didn’t even run the addition formula in these columns, you just made up numbers for the totals.”

Connor honest-to-God giggles. Dylan elbows him and takes the tablet. He’d rather not use Excel on a tablet because it’s a pain in the ass but this is just character assassination. He painstakingly fixes some numbers and runs formulas. Next to him, Connor flips through his notebook and scrawls some names in the margins of what looks like a floorplan of their house.

“We’re not naming our kids after living authors,” says Dylan, when he realizes what Connor is doing.

“Hush,” says Connor. “Mind your own business. Do your math.”

Dylan elbows him in the side again and goes back to fixing the spreadsheet.

“I think we can only go on a Scotiabank date once a year if we put the five and seven year old in hockey at that age.”

“What about figure skating?” Connor asks. “That’s a little cheaper. Sort of. Less gear they’re going to grow out of every six months.”

“So like,” says Dylan, tapping at the spreadsheet. “Three kids in hockey and two kids in figure skating?”

“I like that,” says Connor. “We can be hockey dads and ice skating dads. Oh, we can be Winter Olympics dads.”

“Okay,” says Dylan, because Connor’s smile is cute and he does like the idea of kids thanking their cool supportive dads on international television when they win gold medals.

The rest of the period passes peacefully until Dylan finishes fixing the math on the spreadsheet and passes it back to Connor to check.

Connor looks at it for a half-second and says, “hey, uh, Dylan?”

“Yeah?” says Dylan.

“Wait,” says Connor. “I can’t ask you here.”

“What?”

Connor pulls out his phone and texts someone under the table. Dylan’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

 _Did you really mean that you would date me?_ Connor says. _Or were you just drunk?_

 _i did mean it_ says Dylan. _did you really mean that you think youre going to be alone for the rest of your life?_

 _Yes but I’m fine with it_ says Connor. _That’s just how it is. What about you? Are you ever going to get married?_

 _all i want is to be married_ says Dylan. He can’t believe he’s having this conversation in the middle of class but he’s still hungover and Connor just made him use Excel on a tablet for thirty-five minutes so maybe he should go easy on himself. _i dont care what i do, i just want to be a husband and love someone for the rest of my life. maybe with kids maybe not but i want to love someone_

 _I hope you get that_ says Connor. _I think you’d be good at loving someone. Better than me, probably._

Dylan looks over at Connor. Connor is staring at his phone with a quiet, sad expression on his face. “That’s bullshit,” says Dylan. “You would be good at it too.”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Connor. “I haven’t really. With anyone.”

 _will you go on a date with me sometime that doesn’t involve homework?_ says Dylan and looks up at Connor. Connor is smiling at his phone, a faint blush on his cheeks.

 _well???_ says Dylan.

“Okay,” says Connor. “That would be fun, I guess.”

It’s too early to fall in love, Dylan reminds himself. He elbows Connor in the side another time. 

_coffee?_

_After we turn in the project_ says Connor. _I don’t want to ruin my 4.0._

“Come on, man,” says Dylan with a groan.

 _I don’t want to get distracted and we fail our project_ says Connor. _Coffee after we turn it in._

 _i guess i did promise alex i wouldnt fuck you until after the semesters over_ says Dylan.

 _Who said we were fucking? And that’s a weird promise_ says Connor. _But it makes sense._

 _does it??? cause i feel pretty stupid now_ says Dylan.

 _Don’t you live in Mississauga?_ says Connor. _I live in Newmarket. The semester is over in 2 weeks. We can go on a date during break._

 _yeah but long distance relationships are hard_ says Dylan.

 _You’re an idiot but I like you_ says Connor.

“Yeah,” says Dylan. “I like you too.” It feels important that he say it out loud.

“If you guys are bored, I’ve got articles on the social stigmas of wealthy queer men and marriage,” says Professor Saad, standing in front of their table. They both sit up, caught with their phones out and guilty. “Or am I interrupting something important?”

“You’re interrupting something important,” says Dylan. “We’re talking about the project.”

“Give me your phones,” says Professor Saad. “You can get them back after class. Use your mouths, not your hands.”

Dylan hands over his phone, laughing. Connor looks mortified as he locks his phone and passes it over.

“Oh, so it was important,” says Professor Saad. He really is unflappable, Dylan thinks. “I see.”

“Professor Saad--” says Dylan.

“How about this,” says Professor Saad. “I won’t dock points on your participation grade if you write a 150 word essay before class ends on relationship negotiation between queer men in the 21st century. And no personal narratives.”

“Class ends in ten minutes!” Dylan protests.

“Better get writing,” says Professor Saad and he walks away, phones in hand.

Dylan says, “oh, this is bullshit.”

“Shut up and write,” says Connor. “I have a perfect participation grade, I don’t want to lose it.”

Dylan pulls out his notebook and starts writing. He makes his handwriting as shitty as possible in protest, even though it’s petty and he’ll probably still lose points. But by the time the clock hits 11:50, he’s got 152 words. Connor has two whole pages, back and front in tidy handwriting. He’s such a nerd.

The rest of the class gets to leave. Dylan and Connor get to turn in their essays and retrieve their phones.

“Personal conversations are important,” says Professor Saad. “But I’d urge you to think about the appropriateness of having them in the middle of class.”

“Sorry Professor,” says Connor.

“Sorry,” says Dylan even though he isn’t.

Professor Saad looks at them for a long time. “Good luck,” he says finally. “I look forward to seeing your final project.”

He hands them back their phones. Dylan and Connor rush out the door and into the crowd of students running for the cafeteria.

“I gotta meet Leon,” says Connor, tugging on Dylan’s sleeve so he’s forced to stop right in front of the classroom door. “For lunch. I’ll text you. I think we’re almost done. I’m almost done with the literature review and then we just need the narrative part. That shouldn’t take long. I can do it all if you want.”

“No way,” says Dylan. “You write the first draft and I’ll make it good.”

“You can’t even use punctuation correctly,” says Connor, his mouth twitching.

“I didn’t study prairie gothic for an elective. I have joy left in me.”

“Stop it,” says Connor, scrunching up his nose. Dylan’s soul is one big long sigh everytime Connor does that. Connor hesitates and then says, “I like you. I wanted to say that out loud after you did.”

“Good,” says Dylan. He smiles, reaches out to tug the cuff of Connor’s coat over his wrist, brushing the back of Connor’s hand with his fingers. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,” says Connor. He looks like he wants to do…something…to Dylan but thinks it’s a bad idea. Or maybe he’s not brave enough. Dylan thinks it’s kind of a bad idea too and he isn’t really brave either so he guess that either makes both of them super smart or super chicken shit. He lets go of Connor’s sleeve. Connor gives him a small smile and takes off down the hallway.

“What is up with you two?” says Clayton, appearing at Dylan’s side. “Seriously, what is going on?”

“Were you seriously just standing there watching us?” Dylan asks, poking him in the forehead.

“It was kind of like a really hilarious, awkward car crash,” says Clayton, slapping Dylan’s hand away.

“Fuck you, we’re adorable,” says Dylan.

“That too,” says Clayton. “Come on, I only have 20 minutes until Professor Toews’ office hours and I really need to be the first in because I do not understand stoicism and he said that would be a huge part of the final.”

“Should have taken this class with me and Kitty,” says Dylan. He’s done with classes for the day.

“Ugh,” says Clayton. “And potentially be married to you? Gross.”

Dylan shoves him into a wall and they take off running through the rapidly emptying building.

 

;;

 

Connor texts him later that afternoon, but it’s not to come over, only a message that he finished the literature review and he’s starting the narrative and could Dylan please get images of all the furniture and hockey gear and executive boxes and email them to him. It takes the better part of the night to find images of everything they said they were going to buy, but he eventually finds it all and emails it to him. Then he sits down to study for his Biostatistics final, which he’d been putting off for the last week in favor of working with Connor. He’s only taking four classes this semester and three of them are math classes he’s feeling fairly confident about. Well, Visual Arts and Geometry is kind of kicking his ass but his Theoretical Statistics and Biostatistics finals he’ll be fine with because they have the same professor and Professor Ekman-Larsson actually knows how to write a study rubric. Also, Ekman-Larsson likes him and thinks he has potential.

He doesn’t see Connor until their next class on Wednesday, the last day of #Blessed before Professor Saad lets them go for dead week. Connor had texted him a handful of times in the past two days, mostly for clarification on some part of the project they’d talked about and whether or not Dylan agreed with him still. Nothing about a date. Dylan guesses Connor is really serious about not letting that get in the way of his 4.0.

Dylan’s late to #Blessed because it’s snowing again and Alex wanted him to wait for him after his Gaming Arts class before they left the STEM building for the humanities building. Alex wanted to huddle for warmth when they crossed the academic quad but Dylan is always, always going to be in favor of outrunning the weather. It results in both of them being out of breath and also late.

Professor Saad says, “well, I respect that you tried to get here as fast as you can.”

“Sorry,” they say. Dylan slides into his seat next to Connor and Alex crashes into the table behind them next to his girlfriend.

“You have snow in your hair,” whispers Connor. Dylan runs a hand through his hair. It’s just going to be wet and gross by the end of the period.

“As I was saying,” says Professor Saad. “As a conclusion to this class, we’re going to watch music videos for love songs that feature some element of marriage and then we’re going to discuss how they’re a reflection of millennial and Generation Z romances.”

He starts with Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” and Dylan realizes how very much Professor Saad is phoning it in when he allows them to share memories of middle school romances in addition to inexpertly applying their own research on marriage. Beyonce’s “Hold Up” goes a little better when everyone gets on a roll about how 21st Century technology fucked up Beyonce and Jay-Z’s marriage and whether that would have happened if they were married in the 50s. Professor Saad has to step in when people start getting heated about Jay-Z cheating on Beyonce, but Dylan is really enjoying this class, especially the way Connor keeps quiet through the discussions but shakes his head and smiles at his open notebook when he disagrees. Dylan tries to pull his chair closer to Connor as subtly as he can but Connor notices. He acknowledges him with a shy smile and knocks his elbow against Dylan’s. Dylan can’t believe Connor is still shy around him. They shared a bed together, for fuck’s sake. They’re going on a date in the not too distant future, hopefully.

Professor Saad ends the class with Cinematic Orchestra’s “To Build A Home”. Dylan hasn’t heard this song before and he certainly wasn’t expecting a music video about a sick woman being mercy killed by her husband. He’s crying by the end of it and thank God he’s not the only one. He can’t blame it on exhaustion because he’s just a big ol’ softie but the rest of the class probably can blame it on end-of-semester sleeplessness.

“So,” says Professor Saad. “Thoughts?”

“That was so fucked up,” says Alex, sounding like he’s spent the past six minutes trying manfully not to cry.

“Very illuminating, Alex, thank you. Anyone else?”

Dylan puts his hands over his face and tries to will himself to stop crying.

“I think,” says Connor, next to him, “that it’s not really a reflection of millennial and Generation Z romances because, um, I’m pretty sure the musician is Generation X and the music video is about two older people. But I think there’s still some truth in it for our generation, because we live under the constant threat of the world ending.”

“Explain,” says Professor Saad. Dylan rubs his eyes one more time and looks at Connor. Connor doesn’t look like he’s been crying but he does look a little shattered.

“I mean, global warming is changing the planet in ways we can’t reverse and we’ll probably all still be alive when we have our climate reckoning. And there’s the constant threat of war even though we like to think we’re safe in Canada, but we always get caught in the crossfire. And yeah, we could die at anytime randomly from, uh, literally anything.” Connor looks uncomfortable being the center of attention but he also looks determined to finish. “I think what makes this video relevant for Generation Z is that it says, uh, it says that we can love each other until the end, even if the end is something we control ourselves. We can love each other when the world ends.” He quirks the side of his mouth, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “Even if the world that ends is the one we create together. I mean, I don’t think the life I create with a future partner is going to influence how I die, I’m sure we’ll all die in a nuclear winter before that but what I get from this video is that we can control how we love each other in our final moments. The two people in the video love each other in the end of the woman’s life, even though the husband is literally killing his wife. I think what millennials and Generation Z can learn from this video is that we have the capability of loving each other until the end, in the end, no matter how it ends.”

Dylan has tears in his eyes again. He fucking wants a hug.

“Well put,” says Professor Saad. “Connor, please see me after class. The rest of you are dismissed.”

He puts on the lyric video for Ariana Grande’s “imagine” which is just a little too on the nose for Connor’s climate change comment. The rest of the class grab their stuff and stumble out of the room, a little dazed. Dylan hangs back a moment to talk to Connor.

“Are you done with the first draft?” he asks. He doesn’t really care. He just wants to talk to Connor.

“Almost,” says Connor. “I’ll email you tonight. You won’t have much to do, I think. I put as much joy into it as I could.”

“Dylan, you’re excused,” says Professor Saad. “I need to talk to Connor alone.”

“I’ll text you,” says Connor. “Maybe we can meet up on Friday to go over it together.”

“Yeah,” says Dylan.

“Now, Dylan,” says Professor Saad. Dylan brushes his knuckles down Connor’s arm and then grabs his stuff and leaves.

Alex pulls him into a half-hug outside the classroom. It’s not the kind of hug Dylan wants but it will do until he goes home and can make Ryan hug him until he feels better about everything. “That was so fucked up, right?”

“Yeah, a mercy killing is exactly how I wanted to end the semester,” says Dylan. “Holy shit. I was going to write Professor Saad a good review on Rate My Professor too.”

“At least we have breakfast-dinner tonight,” says Alex. “We can drown our sadness in pancakes.”

Dylan brightens, sort of. He’d forgotten that the beginning of dead week meant breakfast for dinner in the cafeteria. It was the highlight of the winter semester finals week. Even the library being open for 24 hours a day for two weeks with the librarians serving hot chocolate isn’t as good as breakfast-dinner.

“I’m going to go for a run,” he decides, as they exit the building and power-walk through the cold to their dorm. It’s stopped snowing but it’s still fucking freezing. “I want an empty stomach.”

“Are you seriously going for a run outside?”

“The gym,” says Dylan. “I don’t actively have a death wish.”

“Okay, bro,” says Alex. “You can run, I’m going to lie on the floor in front of the furnace and never move again.” He swipes his key card and lets them into their dorm. Dylan shivers all over at the blast of heat against his cold skin. They jog up the stairs to their floor.

Dylan changes into running clothes and puts on sweats over his clothes. He hesitates and then texts Connor: _everything ok with prof saad?_

 _Wellness check_ says Connor, several minutes after Dylan texts him, long enough that Dylan is already in the gym and stripping off his sweats in the locker room. _He was concerned about my comments about dying._

 _youre fine though right?_ says Dylan. He gets on a treadmill and queues up his running playlist.

 _Yes_ says Connor. _I’m going to finish our narrative now. You’re going to breakfast dinner, right?_

 _yeah of course_ says Dylan.

 _See you later_ says Connor.

Dylan sends him a little orange heart emoji before he can overthink it and starts running.

He’s well and truly gross by the end of his run which was long enough to make him remember how much he loved running and how he needs to do it way more often. Back at his suite, Alex is locked into some coding shit and only waves at Dylan. Dylan waves back and grabs his towel so he can go shower.

The rest of the afternoon passes quietly, Dylan working on his stupid Geometry final project and Alex making dying cow noises at his computer every fifteen minutes. Dylan likes fractal art, he really does, but there’s a reason he took a geometry class for his art requirement and that’s because he sucks at doing art.

“Dude, that’s beautiful,” says Alex, looking over his shoulder after Dylan sighs a particularly annoyed sigh. “Is that snow?”

“Yeah,” says Dylan. “It felt meaningful. Or seasonal. Or whatever. It sucks, I hate it. How’s your informatics thing going?”

“Also sucks and I hate it,” says Alex. “But I’m almost done and the program is almost working. How are you and Connor doing with the final project? We’re basically done, just doing some proofreading.”

“Connor’s finishing the narrative tonight,” says Dylan. “I get to proofread and make sure he doesn’t sound too depressed about our future together.”

“Yeah, question, what’s your deal with him?”

“I like him,” says Dylan. “We’re going on a date after the semester ends.”

“Oh cool,” says Alex.

Clayton bursts through their door. “BREAKFAST-DINNER!” he yells. “Also, it’s snowing, so don’t forget your coat this time, Dylan. I’m not cuddling you for warmth.”

“You would if you had to,” says Dylan confidently.

“Okay, yeah, I would, but Connor might be sad,” Clayton says. “Come on, people are already lining up.”

Dylan is on his way to get a third helping of bacon when he runs into Connor. Connor has a tray with two glasses of chocolate milk and a stack of waffles drowning in syrup.

“Live fast, die young,” says Dylan with a smirk. 

Connor smiles at him, easy and assured. “If we must die,” he says. “Let us die like men.”

Maddie walks past them with a tray with a plate of hash browns piled as high as her glass of orange juice.

“Let us die like men and Maddie Rooney,” Connor amends. “I finished the narrative. I emailed it to you right before I came here.”

“I’ll look at it tonight,” says Dylan. “Fuck yeah! We’re almost done.”

Connor looks cheerful and Dylan wants to kiss him and he can’t because everyone would see them and Connor would be mortified and never speak to Dylan again. He settles for smiling at Connor. “Talk to you later?”

Connor nods. Dylan goes back to his table. Lawson throws an orange slice at his head when Dylan sits down and demands details on his relationship with Connor. The rest of Dylan’s crew leans in for gossip and Dylan regrets that there’s nothing juicy he can tell because he wants to keep the memory of Connor smiling on his chest as he falls asleep secret.

 

;;

 

Dylan reads their final paper the next morning because he ate too much the night before to really focus on anything. He shot Connor a text to apologise the night before and got a thumbs-up and a barfing emoji in return, so he figured Connor got what he’s going through.

He sits down in their common area with his laptop and a cup of coffee. The literature review is good and he doesn’t bother checking their financial spreadsheet because he’s already checked it five times. He takes a deep breath when he gets to the narrative. He doesn’t know what to expect.

What Connor wrote is perfect. The life: five children, literature, math, hockey, a home with a California king, happiness. The marriage: communication, love, a future. He has to make himself slow down for the final paragraphs.

_They married young and the adjustment from college sweethearts to domestic partners was difficult. It is understandably hard for one partner to shoot to the top of an international sports organization almost immediately after graduate school while the other struggles as a writer at home. Success can be hard to navigate when both people have high expectations for themselves. But buying a home helped. Adopting children helped. Careful financial planning helped. Making decisions not only for their family but as a family helped._

_They made it work because they loved each other. All the statistician wanted was to love someone. All the writer wanted was to be loved. It was simple. Their high expectations for personal success turned into something altogether more lovely when they met: the expectation that they could love each other so fully that they would make a life together._

_Dylan and I fully believe that the statistician and the writer will make this relationship work. The statistician and the writer are in this relationship until the world ends; it’s inspirational and it’s real._

_We created their life with no particular expectations, but in doing this project, we think now that we understand we could create a life of our own._

It’s the cheesiest, most romantic shit Dylan has ever read in his life and he’s in tears.

“Buddy, you okay?” Alex asks, looking over at him from where he’s slouched on the couch next to him. Dylan didn’t even notice him sit down.

“No,” says Dylan, wiping his eyes and scrolling to the top of the narrative section so he can torture himself with his fake future life all over again.

Alex leans over. “Did he seriously title this section _A Place Where They Feel At Home_?”

“Shut up, our life together is beautiful and perfect,” says Dylan. “You’re jealous because you have a stupid amount of vet bills with your geriatric dogs.”

“I think I might marry my girlfriend for real though,” says Alex.

“Shit, really?”

“Yeah, actually. In a couple of years, if she’s ready.” says Alex. “How about you?”

“I think I need to go see him,” says Dylan.

“I think so too,” says Alex, patting him on the thigh.

Dylan stands up, puts on his shoes, and leaves their suite. He’s outside when he realizes he forgot his coat and his key card. He runs across the quad to Connor’s building and texts Connor with shaking hands. He can’t believe it’s snowing again. He also can’t believe how stupid he is to forget his coat.

 _im outside and i forgot my card and coat let me in before i freeze to death_ Dylan texts.

Connor is downstairs in a matter of seconds. “How is it that you’re so smart and you forget everything?” he asks. “Our homework is not so important that you can’t get your shit together before you leave the building.”

“It’s not but this is,” says Dylan and kisses Connor until they’re both breathless. Connor’s face in his hands, Connor’s lips on his, Connor’s body pressed against him and his hands on Dylan’s arms are all probably the only reasons he isn’t freezing to death.

“Oh,” says Connor, when Dylan pulls away far enough so that he can look Connor in the eye.

“I read the paper,” says Dylan. “I want to create a life with you too.”

“Oh,” says Connor again. His nose is pink and there are snowflakes in his hair. Dylan rubs a thumb across his cheekbone. Connor turns his head and kisses the palm of Dylan’s hand, tender and careful.

“That’s what you meant, right?” says Dylan.

“I did, but only if that’s what you want,” says Connor, looking up at him. “I don’t want to, uh, force anything on you. I know we haven’t been on a date or anything. I just. I really like you.”

He looks unsure; he looks hopeful.

“I’m not in love with you but I probably will be soon,” says Dylan and he kisses Connor again.

Connor kisses him back, soft and sweet.

The door behind them opens. Maddie and Sarah have bottles of rosé in hand and ski jackets on.

“This is super romantic,” says Sarah. “But like, not to be a mom but you guys are definitely going to get hypothermia if you stay out here. Connor, you’re not even wearing shoes.”

Dylan looks down. Connor’s socks are soaked. Maddie bursts into laughter at the look on Connor’s face.

“We’re so stupid,” Dylan says. He’s so happy.

“Yeah,” says Connor and he looks happy too, if really embarrassed. “Let me put on shoes and I’ll walk you back.”

Maddie and Sarah raise their bottles in a toast and disappear into the snowstorm. Connor and Dylan head up to Connor’s room. Connor throws the Maple Leafs sweatshirt at him before changing his socks and putting on shoes.

“You can keep it,” he says.

Dylan has no recourse but to kiss him again and again. When finally he gets back to his suite, Alex makes fun of how bruised his lips are and how content he looks.

 

;;

 

Dylan is lying in bed re-watching Marie Kondo and texting Ryan and Matty about what snacks he expects them to have for him when they pick him up from the airport tomorrow night when Saad posts the grades for their final project.

“FUCK YEAH,” he hears Alex shout from his bedroom. Dylan switches tabs on his computer and drops his phone on his chest.

“What’d you get,” says Alex, barging into his room and jumping on Dylan.

“225 points,” says Dylan, dazed.

“Fuck, and I was happy just to get an A,” says Alex. He punches Dylan in the stomach. “I’m making whiskey hot chocolate to celebrate. You want some?”

“Yeah,” says Dylan, shoving him off. “Give me one second.” He closes his laptop and picks up his phone again. He thinks through what he wants to text very carefully.

 _???????!!!!!!!!!!!!_ he says.

 _Go us_ says Connor.

And then: _< 3_

Dylan grins at his phone like an idiot.


End file.
